


The Canadian vs. Fourth of July and Football

by benjji2795



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: 4th of July, Cute, Fluffy, Football, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-05
Updated: 2016-02-05
Packaged: 2018-05-18 09:58:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,896
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5924137
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/benjji2795/pseuds/benjji2795
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>His mama didn’t mean anything by it, inviting Jack to come to Georgia for the 4th of July.  She didn’t know about his feelings for Jack or that he was trying to use this summer to put some kind of emotional distance between them.  But all the same, he couldn’t help feeling irritated with her when he opened their front door to a pleased-looking Jack Zimmermann.</em>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Canadian vs. Fourth of July and Football

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Devisama](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Devisama/gifts).



> This fic was born out of this prompt from [Devisama](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Devisama/pseuds/Devisama) ([cakemakethme on Tumblr](http://cakemakethme.tumblr.com)): So jack visits Bitty for 4th of July right, and the Bittles decide to play a bit of football and Jack joins in much to Bitty's dismay (because a boy can only take so much) and Jack is either good?bad? needs bitty help with a few pointers? etc.
> 
> I took that, and created this fic. The prompt was key to making this happen lol, so thanks <3
> 
> Just a heads up, some of the text might come across as a little rambly, and that's totally on purpose, because that's how I imagine Bitty's thoughts are a lot of the time.
> 
> Big thanks to [DaZeli](http://archiveofourown.org/users/DaZeli/pseuds/DaZeli) for beta-ing! <3

His mama didn’t mean anything by it, inviting Jack to come to Georgia for the 4th of July.  She didn’t know about his feelings for Jack or that he was trying to use this summer to put some kind of emotional distance between them.  But all the same, he couldn’t help feeling irritated with her when he opened their front door to a pleased-looking Jack Zimmermann.

 

“Hi Bittle,” he says, with that lopsided grin that Eric loves so much painting the corner of his mouth.

 

“Hey Jack,” Eric replies, his mouth feeling a little dry because _goodness_ , that NHL training regimen has been doing wonders for Jack’s already incredible physique.  Jack is also sweating, a light sheen covering his forehead.  _Poor Canadian boy, not used to the Georgia heat_ , Eric snickers to himself.

 

“Oh where are my manners, come in,” he continues.  “You must be dyin’ out there.”

 

Jack wipes his forehead with the sleeve of his _long-sleeve_ shirt (that poor, misguided Canadian boy) and scratches the back of his neck.  “Eh, it’s not too bad.”

 

“It’s only morning,” Eric smirks.  “It’ll be gettin’ much hotter.”

 

Jack shrugs, and Eric pretends he doesn’t see the hint of a frown that flashes across Jack’s face.  Eric wants to launch himself at Jack and hug him, because he hasn’t seen him since graduation, but he’s trying to keep boundaries for himself with Jack over this visit, so he settles for an awkward wave.  His hand slaps on his thigh a little too hard, and he grimaces while Jack simply looks confused.

 

“Dicky, honey, is that Jack?” his mama calls from the kitchen.

 

“Dicky?” Jack asks, and Eric groans, because _oh boy_ , here come the chirps.

 

“Mamaaaa!” Eric whines, stomping into the kitchen with Jack following close behind.  “What did I tell you about callin’ me that while Jack’s here?”

 

“Now sweetheart, I’ve been callin’ you Dicky for years,” his mom chides, putting her hands on her hips.  “You can’t expect me to go changin’ that ‘cause Jack’s here.”

 

“Maaaamaaaa,” he gripes, something she ignores in favor of greeting Jack.

 

“Jack, dear, it’s lovely to see you.  I’m so pleased you could make it,” she smiles, reaching up and pulling Jack down into a hug, which Jack doesn’t hesitate to return.

 

“It’s nice to see you too Mrs. Bittle.  I’m happy to be here,” Jack says, and his mama rolls her eyes, smacking Jack with a spatula the way Eric has sometimes before.

 

“Honey, what did I tell you?  Call me Suzanne please.”

 

Jack nods and Suzanne smiles.

 

“Now I imagine you must be tuckered out from your flight.  Di—I mean, _Eric_ will show you where you’ll be stayin’,” she responds, turning back to the stove top.

 

“I’m really not—” Jack begins to say and Eric shakes his head, so Jack stops.  He’s not about to stand here and watch a stand-off between Jack’s Canadian politeness and his mama’s southern hospitality.  He grabs Jack’s bag from his shoulder and slings it over his own, knowing that his mama would kill him if he didn’t at least try to carry it for Jack.  Jack looks amused as he follows Eric up the stairs to his childhood bedroom.

 

There’s an air mattress he's already taken the liberty of spreading out on the floor (it isn’t inflated yet, because it would be flat by the evening).  He drops Jack’s bag on the bed and turns around.

 

“Now you’ll be sleepin’ on the bed,” he says sternly, pointing at Jack to emphasize his point.  “I’ll be sleepin’ on the air mattress, and this ain’t somethin’ up for discussion, Mr. Zimmermann.”

 

“Oh it _ain’t_ , eh?”

 

“No it _ain’t_ , _eh_?” Eric replies, chirping Jack right back.  “Mama would be mortified if you slept on that.  She’d rather give up her and Coach’s bed before you had to be the one to sleep on the air mattress!”

 

“Okay,” Jack says, after opening and closing his mouth a few times while considering whether to argue.

 

And then they’re standing there in silence, Eric awkwardly watching Jack as Jack looks around at the bits and pieces of Eric’s childhood that are scattered around the room.  Eventually his eyes fall on the prominently displayed shelf that still holds all of Eric’s figure skating trophies.  He steps over, regarding each one carefully.

 

“You were really good,” he says quietly.

 

“I had my moments,” Eric murmurs, ducking his head and flushing brightly.

 

“No really,” Jack corrects, stopping at the photo of Eric at 2011 Southern Junior Championships.  “You were great.  Why did you stop?”

 

“I—I guess I got tired of wearin’ a huge target on my back, you know?” Eric sighs, picking up the medal he won at the SJC; the last medal he ever won for his figure skating.

 

Jack quirks an eyebrow up questioningly.

 

“Maybe at Samwell, people like me are normal and accepted, but down here, I’m really different and figure skating was just another thing that set me apart and so…I got picked on for that.  And it just got to be too much,” Eric shrugs, because he really doesn’t want to go and dredge all this back up.  “Sure I was good, but I don’t regret anythin’ about pickin’ hockey over skating.”  Because he got to go to Samwell.  Because he got to be open about who he was.  Because he made so many great friends.  Because he met Jack.

 

Jack gazes at him, and his expression is so soft and open.  “I’d still like to see you skate some time.  But—yeah I’m—I’m glad you picked hockey too.”

 

And _Lord_ , Eric’s heart is just a puddle pooling at the bottom of his stomach under the intensity of Jack’s eyes; the things this boy does to him without even realizing it.  There’s just so much behind his words that Eric wants to be there, but it’s Jack, and he knows it isn’t there, so rather than doing something stupid, like going up on his tiptoes and kissing Jack like he wants to, he sets the medal down and bolts from his room, pretending that his mama called him.  Jack’s only here for three days; Eric would like to think that he can make it that long without colossally screwing everything up between him and Jack.

* * *

 

Eric hangs out with Jack the rest of the day while carefully working to keep his guard up.  He’s spent years hiding and suppressing things, but with Jack it’s just so hard and Eric isn’t even sure why—okay, actually, he does, because his mama is taken with Jack, just like she has been since they first met after the Yale game, and Coach takes to Jack like a duck to water.  Eric really shouldn’t be surprised; Jack has the ability to be quite charming, it’s just too often hidden under all his layers of awkwardness; he’s had a firsthand view of that for the last year, and Jack might be the most charming of all around Eric, and _dear Lord_ , all this isn’t helping him in the least.

 

The next day is the 4th and all the Bittles are coming over, so Eric plants himself in the kitchen and gets to work baking pies.  He apologizes to Jack, who just smiles and goes to mingle with his family, tossing a chirp about baking too much over his shoulder.

 

He doesn’t see Jack again until late-afternoon when every sits down at picnic tables set up in the backyard to eat.  It’s sweltering hot, with temperatures approaching 100°F, and Jack looks like he’s about to melt from the heat, something all the Bittles decide to chirp him for.

 

“Now I get why you’re always cold,” Jack mutters, sitting down with a plate of food next to Eric, once he finally escapes the chirps.  “It’s so fucking _hot_ here.”

 

“Exactly,” Eric laughs and pulls out his phone (belatedly realizing Jack just said fuck and is too late to chirp him for that), taking a picture of Jack, face flushed and covered in sweat.  He’s taking it to send to Jack the next time he chirps him about being cold ( _not_ because Jack looks hot in the figurative sense).  “Next time you try and chirp me, I’ll just send you this to remind you.”

 

Jack peers at the photo and shakes his head with a slight grin playing across his lips.  “It looks like I just came off the ice after suicides.”

 

“C’mon, suicides ain’t that bad!”

 

“Wanna know a secret?  I hate them,” Jack whispers, and Eric lights up.  There’s actually a hockey drill that Jack hates!  This is monumental news, honestly.  Eric takes his phone out, prepared to disseminate this new information to the group chat when Jack takes a drink out of the cup he brought with him and puckers up his face.

 

Eric pauses and glances in the cup and chuckles.  “Sweet tea not really doin’ it for you?”

 

“Uh, no?  It’s fine I just—it’s so _sweet_ ,” Jack stammers, and _bless his heart_ , he obviously doesn’t like it but won’t say so because this boy is just so damn Canadian!

 

“Goodness honey, I would’ve never guessed, considering it’s called sweet tea,” Eric chirps, trying to not giggle as he puts a hand on Jack’s bicep.

 

Jack scowls for all of two seconds before he breaks out into a grin.  “Alright Bittle, you got me there.  But no, it was—okay, I just wasn’t ready for it to have as much sugar in it as a slice of your pecan pie.”

 

At that, every head in the vicinity shoots up and turns to look at Jack (minus his mama, who’s staring at her plate and trying not to laugh), and Jack jumps in surprise.

 

“What did you say boy?” one of his uncles asks Jack at the same time Jack asks Eric: “What did I say?”

 

Eric glances knowingly at Jack, and Jack is flushing darker as he mumbles: “Uh, pecan?”

 

If Jack thought the chirping about the temperature was bad, then he was unprepared for the entire Bittle family to chirp him for his pronunciation of “pecan”.  And Eric would feel bad, if they hadn’t had this conversation in the kitchen of the Haus at least ten times over the last year, and if Jack wasn’t bearing the brunt of the chirping he normally received at a family gathering.  He’d apologize to Jack about this later.

 

Jack took it good-naturedly, even dishing back his fair share of chirps, and Eric would be lying if he said that he wasn’t surprised by how at ease Jack was with his whole family.  There were a lot of them, and Jack was certainly the center of attention (which Eric expected to be disconcerting to Jack), being the only non-Bittle who’s been to a family event in at least ten years.  But he was taking it well and—Eric was trying not to picture Jack at future family get-togethers, and was failing miserably.

* * *

 

Once they were done eating, Eric sets to work clearing the dishes and laying out his desserts.  He turns to Jack to ask if he wants to help (mostly for the purpose of giving him a break from the Bittles), but Coach is already tapping Jack’s shoulder.

 

“Jack, you want to join the football game?”

 

The 4th of July touch football game was a Bittle tradition, ever since Eric was a small boy.  Eric always begged out of it, because the game was rough, even though it was always two-hand touch.  And despite the fact that contact didn’t bother Eric as much anymore (thanks to Jack), he still didn’t have interest in playing.

 

“Sure,” Jack shrugs.

 

“You know how to play football?” Eric asks, shaking his head gently because—Jack is Canadian and Canadians don’t have football and goodness, honey _no_ , the CFL does not count as football.

 

“No, but I’m sure it can’t be that hard.  I am an athlete, aren’t I?” Jack replies, and walks off after Coach.

 

“Mama,” Eric says, a smirk on his face.  “Mama, take care of this.  I have to watch Jack try and play football.”

 

“Oh Lord help that boy,” she responds, grabbing the stack of plates Eric has already gathered.  Eric jogs over to the makeshift field, phone at the ready because, boy, are there going to be opportunities for videos that the guys will never forgive Eric if he doesn’t get any to share.

 

And he’s right, because the look on Jack’s face after Coach breaks the huddle for the first time is priceless.  He looks completely lost, frozen to the spot.  Probably because the Bittle 4th of July Football Game isn’t your normal backyard, sandlot affair, because his dad is a high school head football coach so _yes_ , there is playbook and _yes_ , everyone is expected to know it.

 

Coach walks over to Jack and taps him on the shoulder, whispering something in his ear which makes the furrow in Jack’s brow grow deeper and Lord, Eric is going to have to go out there and help Jack, because he has to have Jack’s back.  He’s not going to let him look like a fool in front of his whole family.

 

Eric signals for a timeout and jogs up to Jack immediately.

 

“Junior?” Coach says, clearly shocked by his appearance on the field.

 

“Someone has to translate football speak for Jack,” he shrugs, and he can see Jack’s shoulders drop a good four inches and a smile spread across his face.  “What’s the play?”

 

(Yes, Eric knows the playbook, because it’s the same one Coach uses for his high school team and until Eric took up hockey his junior year, Coach continued to entertain delusions of Eric becoming a football player and taught him the entire playbook.)

 

“Jets Sweep left,” Coach replies.

 

“Really, on the first play Coach?” Eric questions.  A “Jets Sweep” is a low-percentage trick play.  Not the sort of play you’d run at the very beginning of the game.

 

“Just tryin’ to catch ‘em off guard Junior.”

 

“I don’t think that’s a good idea but, fine, movin’ on.  So Jack’s position?”

 

“Wide receiver.”

 

“Right, cause he’s one of the tallest people here.  Is he taking the handoff or blocking?”

 

“I guess if you’re going to play, he’ll block.”

 

Right, Eric is definitely the fastest person here, something that carries over from on the ice.  Which means Coach’ll try to get him the ball as much as possible—at least that makes explaining what Jack has to do easier.

 

“Okay then,” Eric nods and then turns to Jack.  “Jack, you’re going to line up to left.  Make sure you stay behind where the ball is.  When Coach gets the ball, your job is to block whoever is right in front of you.  Just—” Eric puts his hands on Jack’s chest to demonstrate, ignoring the firmness underneath his fingertips.  “Put your hands right there and try to keep them in front of you.”

 

“Got it,” Jack acknowledges and his expression is intense; now that he knows what he’s doing, Jack is slipping right into his competitive mode.

 

They line up, and the ball is snapped.  Coach turns around and hands it right off to Eric who was coming up behind him in motion, and Jack—well, he muffs the block and Eric gets shoved harshly before he can get any yards.

 

“Sorry.  I’ll do better next time,” Jack mutters, pulling Eric to his feet and patting him on the shoulder.  And that’s why Eric wouldn’t have suggested having Jack play; he knows Jack well enough to know that he’s competitive and will take it too hard if he’s not very good.

 

“Relax Jack, it’s just for fun.  Ain’t no reason to get upset,” Eric tries to reassure Jack as he herds him back to the huddle.  And so he tells Jack every time he makes a mistake; he doesn’t want Jack being too hard on himself over a backyard football game.

 

Jack isn’t all that good at football, but he’s better than most of the Bittles, mostly because of his sheer athletic talent.  Coach tweaks his bum knee towards the middle of the game and puts Eric at quarterback, but he still calls the plays from the sidelines.  Eric’s throwing arm isn’t great, but he and Jack still have the same chemistry out on the field as they do on the ice, plus Jack is taller than everyone playing cornerback, so he’s just throwing it to Jack and they’re lighting it up.

 

But their defense isn’t very good (why Coach puts his cousin Addison at corner baffles Eric; Addison might be 6’3”, but he’s clumsier than Nursey and can’t run, so whoever he’s covering is open on _every play_ ), so when they’re given the “one more drive” signal by his mama, they’re down by 3 (because yes, they do field goals in this too).  Coach motions for him to come over to get the play, but Eric ignores him.

 

“Jack.”

 

“Hmm?”

 

“Just—go long,” Eric says, and he knows that Coach is yelling at him because he’s totally going sandlot, but he doesn’t care.  This is going to work.

 

They line up and snap the ball, and Jack takes off on a dead sprint straight up the field.  Eric holds the ball for a few seconds and then lets it fly.  It’s about the best pass Eric’s thrown in his life and it lands directly into Jack’s out-stretched arms in the end zone.  Eric pumps his fist, and Coach is shaking his head, but he’s also grinning.

 

Eric sprints down to where Jack is and tackles him for a celly.  He knows this is football and that just doesn’t happen in football, but Jack plays hockey and he’s going to understand a celly better than everyone going up to him and slapping him on the back.  Eric’s younger cousins follow suit, and suddenly there’s just a bunch of them rolling around in the grass, and Jack is ruffling Eric’s hair and grinning and it’s perfect.

 

They’re standing around after, eating pie (Jack is having the maple apple, and _hush_ , he didn’t make it just because Jack is here), and Coach gives Jack a hard smack on the back.

 

“I’m thinkin’ we may need to get you a copy of the playbook,” Coach grins.  “Just think how well you’ll play next time around when you actually know what to do.”

 

Eric really wants to tell Coach to shut up.  He highly doubts that Jack’ll ever have the chance to come to another Bittle get-together, and besides, he doesn’t want Jack to feel like he has to.

 

“Yeah, why not?” Jack answers coolly without hesitation and well, Eric’s mouth might be hanging open a little.  “Eric might have to help me with it, but I’d definitely like to be more use to you guys next time around.”

 

And—Jack expects to come to something like this again?  _What?_

“Oh you were plenty of use,” Coach chuckles, slinging an arm around both of them.  “You and Junior have a pretty special connection.  A bit like Matt Ryan and Roddy White back in the day, hmm?”

 

 _“Back in the day?!”_ Eric exclaims indignantly, Jack’s comments forgotten for the moment.  “You say that like it was twenty years ago!  They’re both still playin’ Coach!”

 

And that’s how Eric ends up having a heated discussion with Coach and a few of his uncles about the decline of the Falcons and Dan Quinn’s merits as a head coach (“Sure, he was a great coordinator in Seattle, but so was Gus Bradley, and look, the Jaguars are still just languishin’!  Who’s to say that it won’t be the same with Quinn?”), all while Jack just stands quietly next to him, so close their arms brush every time Eric moves.  He seems to be listening, holding the same laser focus he always has when he cares about paying attention to something, even though Eric is sure he doesn’t understand a word they’re saying.  And he’s probably just imagining it, but it looks as if Jack is smiling a little wider every time Eric gets passionate and animated, waving his hands around as he illustrates his point.

 

Eventually, they’re interrupted because it’s getting late, and they have to go if they want a decent spot to watch the fireworks.  Jack quietly sticks close to him, and Eric understands; he’s probably wiped out after a whole day spent interacting with his big, noisy family.  Eric’s more than content to just sit wordlessly with Jack while they wait for the fireworks to start.  Except…

 

“You want to do this again?” Eric asks softly.  Jack is just his friend and—friends don’t just come to friends’ family gatherings on a regular basis.  That’s not a normal thing.

 

Jack shrugs nonchalantly.  “Only if you want me to, eh?”

 

“Yeah—I mean, yeah I do,” Eric replies. 

 

“Good,” Jack smiles happily and that’s enough for Eric’s whole body to feel warm, and it has nothing to do with the Georgia heat.  Lord, he’s not going to tell Jack he doesn’t want him around, because he does; that’s kind of Eric’s biggest problem.  He wants Jack around all the time. 

 

“I just don’t—” Eric starts before there’s a loud series of pops that interrupts his sentence.  Jack watches him like he expects him to continue talking, but having a conversation over the fireworks is frowned upon, so he just shakes his head and points towards the sky.  He doesn't even know how he was planning on finishing that sentence anyway.

 

Jack rests back on his elbows and admires the brilliant flashes of color splashed across the night sky, and Eric finds himself watching Jack more than he watches the fireworks.  A few times, Jack catches him, and Eric ducks his head and flushes, and so he misses the soft grins Jack gives him in response.

 

Jack sits next to him in the car on the way back to his house, squished in the backseat with Addison, and the way they’re touching, shoulder all the way down to knee is just a little bit overwhelming to Eric.  He was using the distance between them to lessen the intensity of his feelings for Jack, but now Jack is _here_ , and he wants to come here _again_ , and now it feels like Jack’s visit has set him back to square one.

 

They get home, and Eric mumbles a good night to Jack, and despite the heat, he burrows under a mountain of blankets on the air mattress.  Goodness, he was _so_ wrong to think he could handle this.  At least tomorrow is Jack’s last full day in Georgia.

* * *

 

Jack is already up when Eric wakes up the next morning.  Eric blearily stumbles downstairs, but only Coach is in the kitchen.  _Jack is probably out for a run_ , Eric thinks.

 

July 5th is usually a quiet day at the Bittle household, because his parents are usually hungover, and Eric himself is tired from flitting around all day, so they tend to spend the day quietly cleaning up everything left over from the day before.  He’s not sure how that’ll work with Jack here.

 

Eric pours himself a cup of coffee and sits down at the table with Coach, overcome by just how awkward the silence between them is (even more so than usual).

 

“Jack seems like a nice boy,” Coach says, his voice gruff like it always is.

 

“Yeah, he really is,” Eric agrees, even though “nice” isn’t nearly descriptive enough and doesn’t really capture Jack at all (plus he really isn’t sure where Coach is going with this at all).

 

“You uh,” Coach pauses, scratches his chin, and takes a sip of coffee.  “Jack is—you two are—you know—good for you, Junior.”

 

Eric starts choking on his own spit.  _“What?!”_

 

Coach shifts uncomfortably and okay, he probably wasn’t expecting that reaction from Eric, but he did just imply him and Jack are—well, _something_ , when Eric didn’t even know that Coach knew he was gay and _God_ , he never expected to being having a conversation like this, with _Coach_ , of all people.

 

“I-I—Jack and I—it’s not like that,” Eric splutters.

 

Coach raises an eyebrow questioningly.  “You’re not exactly subtle, Junior.”

 

“Jack and I are not—I swear!” Eric exclaims, trying not to panic because _shit_ , if Coach could pick up on it, who else knew about how Eric felt about Jack?  “He’s straight and I’m just—I know it’s pathetic and I’m tryin’ to get over it but—it ain’t easy.”

 

Coach starts guffawing and Eric watches in confusion, because he can’t remember the last time he heard Coach laugh this hard.

 

“You mostly take after your mother but son,” Coach pauses, wiping tears from his eyes, “I never would’ve guessed you inherited my thick skull!”

 

“What the heck are you talkin’ ‘bout Coach?” Eric asks, because he can’t see what’s so funny about this.

 

“I—man, Junior, that boy has been fixin’ to be more obvious than you!” Coach explains.  And Coach—well he doesn’t _seem_ to be joking, which means he’s just way off-base.

 

“Jack just ain’t that good at interactin’ with people,” Eric defends, because he definitely knows Jack better than Coach seems to think he does.  “He don’t have a clue that he’s doin’ those things and he certainly don’t mean it that way.”

 

“If you say so,” Coach shakes his head, and Eric knows that he doesn’t believe him one bit.

 

“But how did you know?  About me?” Eric questions, after a few beats of silence, because that’s been nagging him since this conversation started.

 

“Like I said, you ain’t subtle, and I ain’t stupid.”

 

“Oh.”

 

“I’ve always tried to show you that I love you just the same, Junior, but I know I ain’t always been so good at it.  I hope you know that though; I just want you to be happy,” Coach continues, and Eric might want to cry because this was better than any other way he’d imagined coming out to Coach would’ve gone.

 

Just then, Jack walks into the kitchen, and freezes in his tracks, probably because Eric failed at holding his tears back and they are many of them streaming down his cheeks.

 

“I’ll just—come back,” Jack mumbles, turning around.

 

“No son, that’s quite alright,” Coach says, standing up and herding Jack into the kitchen.  “I was just leavin’.”

 

Coach exits, and Eric hopes that he isn’t giving Jack any strange or suggestive looks.  Jack seems only slightly more awkward than usual when he walks over Eric and kneels down next to him, comfortingly putting a hand on his back.

 

“Eric?  Is everything okay?” Jack asks.

 

Eric sniffs and dabs at his eyes with his shirt sleeve.  “Yeah Jack,” he replies, giving Jack a smile that he knows looks watery and maybe a little unsteady, but it’s genuine all the same.  “I just—kinda came out to Coach?  Well—I didn’t come out so much as he told me he already knew.  And it’s—yeah, he’s good, and I’m just—happy and overwhelmed.”

 

Eric hazards a look over at Jack, and gosh, was that a bad idea, because Jack’s expression is softer than Eric’s ever seen it before, and he can see the concern deep in his blue eyes and—could Coach have actually been onto something?

 

“Congratulations,” Jack says after studying him for a moment.

 

“Good mornin’ boys,” his mama says as she strolls into the kitchen.  She stops when she sees him.  “Dicky, baby, what’s wrong?”

 

She rushes to his side and Jack quickly withdraws, and Eric tries to not feel bad about wishing Jack was still there instead of him mama.

* * *

 

Eric ends up taking Jack sightseeing around Madison and Morgan County, because they hadn’t yet and Jack is leaving the next morning.  They visit all the historic landmarks, because Eric knows that’s what Jack will enjoy (and he couldn’t care less about what he enjoys; if Jack’s enjoying himself, then so is Eric), and Jack brings his camera.  While they drive from place to place, Eric plugs his phone in and takes to chirping Jack aggressively over pop culture, and Jack chirps him back about Twitter and being attached to his phone, and it’s comfortable, familiar, and a few times, Eric has to swallow around the lump in his throat when he thinks about Jack leaving tomorrow.

 

But when they’re exploring the landmarks, it’s quiet, the two of them wandering from place to place, Eric pretending to read the placards, and instead watching Jack as he snaps picture after picture.  Jack is just so— _Jack_ as he eagerly takes in the scenery and the history of it all, and Eric is helpless against the thought of the two of them doing this sometime in the future, walking hand in hand as Jack soaks up the history and Eric soaks up—well, Jack, and so he also finds himself desperately wishing Coach was right about Jack, even though Eric is sure he’s not.

 

And well, he doesn’t mean to tell Jack about what Coach said, but with all that weighs on Eric’s mind all day, and with all the heavy looks his parents give him that afternoon, it just slips out later that evening, when they’re both climbing into bed.

 

“Coach thought we were dating,” he blurts out, and then is immediately flooded with regret.  It sounds like Jack is continuing to get settled in bed, quiet for a few seconds too long, and out of necessity, Eric begins word vomiting.  “And I told him he was just bein’ ridiculous because you’re clearly straight and anythin’ he thought he was seein’ was just—well you bein’ awkward I guess which he thought was hysterical—”

 

Eric keeps mumbling nonsensical things as he smashes his face into his pillow, embarrassed beyond belief that those things just came tumbling from his mouth.

 

“Eric,” Jack says, and that’s the second time today he’s called him Eric and not Bittle.  Eric reluctantly sits up, and even though the room is dark, and Jack’s face is just a silhouette in the moonlight streaming through the window, Eric can pick up enough of Jack’s expression to make his stomach do anxious somersaults.

 

“I’m not— _straight_ ,” Jack continues quietly, so soft that Eric can barely hear him, and he doesn’t, not really, because then Jack leans in and kisses him, and he can’t hear anything over the blood rushing in his ears.

 

He kisses back earnestly, leaning into Jack, and Jack puts his arms around his middle and pulls their chests’ flush.  Eric clings to Jack, trying to keep up, trying not to pass out or die because _Jack is kissing him_ and it’s everything he’d been dreaming of for months, and more.

 

It’s hot and heavy, and maybe just a bit too much for Eric, and he pulls back, resting his forehead on Jack’s and panting.

 

“You didn’t know?” Jack inquires.

 

“I—no!  You didn’t say anything!  How was I supposed to know?” Eric whispers intensely, trying to be careful not to disturb his parents.

 

“I was dropping all kinds of hints, eh?” Jack answers, and Eric can hear the grin in his voice.

 

“You were _not_ ,” Eric murmurs accusatorily.

 

“Yes I was!  You should’ve seen your family yesterday, they spent most of the day rolling their eyes at me,” Jack retorts, standing up and pulling Eric onto the bed.  “I volunteered to play football even though I didn’t know how, Eric”

 

“You were tryin’ to impress Coach?”

 

“And you.”

 

“Huh,” Eric hums and snuggles up into Jack’s side, and okay, that puts a lot of Jack’s actions into perspective, like Jack smiling a lot more and making comments about wanting to come to the next Bittle gathering.  “I guess Coach was right.”

 

“Your dad is a lot more observant than you give him credit for.”

 

Eric hums again in agreement, and his eyes start to droop closed, because today has been surprisingly stressful and Jack’s shoulder makes for a shockingly comfortable pillow.

 

“Eric,” Jack says, shaking him gently.

 

“Jaaaack, I want to sleep,” Eric whines, burrowing his head deeper in Jack’s chest.

 

“Eric,” Jack continues insistently, and maybe he’s just crazy tired, but he’s absolutely _loving_ the way his name sounds dripping off of Jack’s tongue.  “We need to talk first.”

 

Eric immediately starts to shift so that he’s sitting up, and his heart has decided to take up residence in his throat while beating at what feels like a thousand beats per second, because maybe Jack has already changed his mind and _God_ , that would just tear him apart.  Jack’s arm wraps around him and gently pulls him back down.

 

“It’s okay Eric I just—I’m not ready to be out yet so—I just wanted to be clear on who we can tell,” Jack explains, soothingly stroking Eric’s hair, and Eric has the sudden urge to purr like a cat because Jack’s hands are so big but so gentle and—wow, okay he is actually purring and Jack is giving him a dopey grin.

 

“We can tell the team, and your parents, and we’ll tell my parents, but that’s it for now, eh?” Jack continues, and Eric nods, because that sounds about right.  Those are really the only people he wants to tell anyway.  “Okay, that’s all I wanted to say.”

 

“Night Jack,” Eric yawns and closes his eyes, falling asleep almost instantly.

* * *

 

They come downstairs at the same time the next morning, and Eric’s parents are already up and eating breakfast, which is convenient, because they wanted to tell them together this morning, before they have to leave for the airport.

 

They both get coffee and sit down, and Jack grabs his hand under the table.  Eric takes a deep breath and just says it.

 

“Jack and I are datin’.”

 

Coach smirks and turns to his mama.  “I told you, dear.”

 

“Now just a minute,” his mama interjects, wagging her finger at Coach.  “For how long?”

 

“Uh—we just decided to, you know, start datin’ last night,” Eric continues, blushing darkly.

 

“And I told _you_ , dear,” she chuckles, and Coach grumbles and pulls out his wallet, and my _God_ , his parents were _betting_ on them.

 

Jack is laughing like this is the funniest thing he’s ever seen, and Eric is mortified, but he has the presence of mind to turn Jack and say: “Don’t laugh, I bet your parents will say somethin’ similar.”

 

Jack’s mouth snaps shut.

 

(At the same time this is happening, their phones are blowing up, because they texted the group chat before coming downstairs.

 

 **Shitty:** Jack Laurent Zimmermann, you beautiful, emotionally-repressed hockey robot, I’m so proud of you!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

 

 **Holster:** Congratulations on finally getting ur shit together :)

 

 **Chowder:** !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

 

 **Chowder:** :D :D :D :D :D :D :D :D

 

 **Ransom:** That just leaves a certain two people *cough*frogs*cough* on the team with unresolved…tension ;)

 

 **Holster:** I’m betting it’s sexual

 

 **Ransom:** You want to bet on that?

 

 **Holster:** Only bc I know I’m right

 

 **Dex:** Shut the fuck up

 

 **Nursey:** Chill Poindexter

From there, the chat dissolved into an argument between Nursey and Dex, with Ransom egging them on and Chowder sending multiple sad faces (and yes, it was sexual tension, as they all found out a few weeks later).

 

)

**Author's Note:**

> Shush, I know Dan Quinn managed to prove his competency as a HC this season and the Jaguars _have_ started improving (though I put more of that on Blake Bortles than I do Gus Bradley but that's a different story), but this took place in the summer of 2015, so the characters didn't know any of that yet.


End file.
